Posts Tagged ‘Tattoos’


I was thinking of having my prostrate tattooed with a scene from that marvellously wholesome TV series The Little House On The Prairie. Do you think this is a good idea?

Village Idiot, The Village

Oily Replies;

Hello Village Idiot,

Excellent idea! When I was a young man in the Navy, sailing the Seven Seas, I was fascinated by The Waltons and got one of my buttocks with John Boy the other buttock with One of the Other Ones.

To this day I have a little party trick I do where I bend over and re-enact the ‘Night John Boy’ scene.  And I haven’t a clue what cheeky ol’ Granpa Walton is getting up to in the wood cutting shed!

Admittedly its best if everybody who witnesses it is uproariously drunk and/or blind at the time otherwise it can be waaaay too disturbing and will live with you forever.

Nighty Night


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I was in Starbucks in Welling the other day, enjoying my Deluxe Grande Mucho Mocha when I had a funny feeling in me innards. Naturally I retired to the smallest room to do me business, which due my high fibre diet was remarkably successful, solid and without the usual sulphurous odour. But the funny feeling in my innards remained.

Then there was a flash of light and lo! A man in a frock sporting a bad perm, wings and a harp apparitioned in front of me and said, “Alright Bob, thou art to be the next Pope. Don’t forget to flush.” POUF! the permed messenger from the heavens was gone. I looked down and my rash (or stigmata as I now call it) was shaped just like the Popemobile.

“Verily ’tis a miracle,” I told my lovely wife Shirley when she came back to our seats after enjoying a ciggie outside.

“Twat,” she replied in that loving way of hers, “You’ve about as much chance of becoming Pope as I have of dating George Clooney.”

She’s seeing George. After Bingo.

Pope Bob has a certain ring to it don’t you think?  And I already know what they will carry me around in!

Laters my children

Bobus Pottus

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How are the New Year Resolutions going? Me too sadly. (They are listed here if you are interested).

I have been thinking about Art.  I like paintings.  A Man o’War or a dog playing a harp are both to my taste.

Recently I was struggling in the facilities of Liverpool Street Station on account of a “swift half” of twelve pints of Cider.

As I finished my business, I noticed on the cubicle door, a crayon drawing of two men involved in a gymnastic display worthy of Nadia Comaneci (if she was a bloke that is). One of them may have had a beard. Tasteful it most certainly wasn’t.

There was a phone number scrawled beneath the sketch and the phrase “I like cock.”

One word came to mind, Banksy, followed by the old proverb “One Born Every Minute”.

Lucien Croix De Guerre,  an Art Dealer in Shoreditch certainly was.

£3,000 he paid me for it.

Strange looks I got walking down Commercial Road with a toilet door under one arm and a copy of The Sun under the other! Lucien reckoned I had invented a new genre. Les Artes de Cottage, he called it.

The door is now hung in the Tate Modern with the title, “The Fallowness Of The Soul” (Yeah, I don’t know either). Turns out the phone number was a Tory MP opposed to Gay Marriage.

Bought my lovely wife Shirley a sitting at the local tattoo parlour with some of the money. Lovely tat of Barack Obama she got. Although it was meant to be Margaret Thatcher. Not the best tattooist. Cheap though. Does a great dagger through the heart. He did mine. Looks alright from a certain angle. Shame he spelled Shirley’s name wrong though. Shirty has a certain ring to it though. Could have been worse.



You can read more of Bob’s musings whilst on the pot here and here. Your lives will be infinitely richer for doing so.

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